


He's Stronger Than You Know

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddles, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Mild Angst, child victim, mentions of child abuse, mentions of past physical abuse, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We should have dinner," Sherlock said casually.</p><p>Greg turned his head to look at Sherlock, startled. "Pardon?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Stronger Than You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Rating it M because of some of the topics that come up.
> 
> I'm not completely back to posting regularly, not around NaNo, but this gripped me and wouldn't let go. This fic was inspired by the song Superheroes, by The Script.

Greg looked up as Sherlock came striding into his office. "I don't have any cases for you," he informed the consulting detective, ignoring the butterflies that churned in his stomach.

"I know," Sherlock said amicably, steepling his fingers, elbows on Greg's desk. He was staring at Greg intently, seeming to absorb every movement that he made. It made Greg's stomach squirm in a pleasurable way. He liked having Sherlock close, being the focus of his attention. Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to his paperwork. Not that he thought about what it meant, being the focus of Sherlock's attention. Not at all. They were simply work colleagues. Greg had suppressed his inappropriate attachment to the younger man. Thoroughly.

"We should have dinner," Sherlock said casually.

Greg turned his head to look at Sherlock, startled. "Pardon?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "You heard me, Lestrade," he drawled. "Or should I say - Greg." He seemed to take great delight in Greg's name, rolling each letter in an elegant way that made Greg shift in his chair, uncomfortably warm.

"You actually know my name." Greg frowned, shuffling paperwork in an attempt to not look at Sherlock. He should say no. He would say no. He wasn't ready, he didn't need that sort of attachment - Sherlock was a work colleague, for god's sake. Who knew how much the Yard would talk if it got out, that he had gone to dinner with Sherlock?

"Yes." Sherlock studied him intently. Greg felt like a bug under a microscope. "I know quite a bit about you."

Greg swallowed. Did he- no. He couldn't. Those records were sealed. There was no way Sherlock could know about - that. "Dinner, then," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Do you have a time and a place?" Colleagues had dinner, right? It was friendly.

"Wednesday. Six pm. I'll pick the place." Sherlock smiled crookedly, one side of his mouth tilting up. "I shall be at your flat at six."

Greg nodded. "Wednesday at six." He wrote it down in his diary and closed the book, placing it back near his computer. "I'll text you if work comes up," he promised Sherlock.

"It won't." The tall man smiled enigmatically and then left in a swirl of long, wool coat. Greg blinked as the office door closed and then rubbed his forehead, trying to not show the fear he felt. Sherlock was on the cusp of discovering secrets best left undiscovered. Greg had overcome it, had survived it, and it was in the past. He had moved on, until his ex-wife had shoved him back a few steps. But he had dealt with it and was moving forward. Still, he had to look out for himself, now, not anyone else. As much as he had saved Sherlock in the past, as much as Sherlock mattered, right now it was Greg that was most important.

-

It had taken Greg an unusually long amount of time to dress for what was simply a friendly dinner. It wasn’t a date, as he had told himself sixteen times in the past two hours. Instead he and Sherlock were dining as colleagues. Greg checked himself out in the mirror, assuring himself that his slacks fit nicely and that his button-up shirt complemented his eyes and skin tone. He had no idea where Sherlock was taking him, but he assumed it would be someplace nice. It was Sherlock, after all.

At six pm exactly, the doorbell rang and Greg stared at the door. Sherlock was on the other side of it. It took him a few moments to work up the courage to pull it open. He was too old, too grey, too stupid - although everyone was an idiot, next to Sherlock. “Hello,” he said, staring at Sherlock.

The younger man was dressed as neatly as Greg had expected - black suit, stark white shirt, but no tie. Formal, but casual enough that Greg didn’t feel underdressed. “You look acceptable,” Sherlock said without preamble, looking Greg up and down.

“Er. Thanks?” Greg said, running a hand through his hair. “You look - good,” he finished lamely. Sherlock looked so much better than good, but, after all, this was a dinner between colleagues. Not a date.

“Shall we?” Sherlock tilted his head, ice-blue eyes locked onto Greg’s.

The scrutiny was rather intimidating. Greg’s hand shook slightly as he locked the door of his flat behind him, tucking his keys and wallet into the pockets of his slacks. “You won’t be needing your wallet,” Sherlock said absently, leading the way down the stairs.

Greg stopped, narrowing his eyes and staring at him. “What do you mean, I won’t need my wallet?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if it was the most obvious of all obvious facts. “You won’t be paying.”

“Sherlock.” Greg tried his patient voice. “I can pay for myself. This isn’t a date.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a secretive smile. “Isn’t it, Detective Inspector?”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat and for a moment he contemplated going back into his flat, closing the door behind him, and pretending that the world would be back to normal the next morning. Apparently it was a date. Greg obviously needed better radar for those sorts of things. Or less denial. He wasn’t sure which. “I don’t know,” he managed, trying to sound normal. “Next time, I pay.”

“There will be a next time?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

Fuck. Greg wanted to bang his head against the wall. “Just - lead the way. Yeah.”

Sherlock chuckled to himself, resuming his descent. Greg sighed, resigned, and followed.

-

It wasn’t quite the swanky restaurant that Greg had been expecting from Sherlock’s ensemble. Instead it was a small, out of the way place not far from Sherlock’s flat. Angelo’s, it was called. “Candle for the table?” asked the scruffy man who came over once Sherlock and Greg had settled into a booth.

“Yes,” Sherlock had answered, without looking up. His attention was on the menu, until he sat it aside and looked at Greg. “I recommend the chicken parmesan. It’s quite good here.”

Greg didn’t move, didn’t twitch. He didn’t even want to know how Sherlock knew that his favourite dish was chicken parmesan. Mycroft, probably. Although the less he thought of Sherlock’s scary older brother, the better. “Thanks.” He sat aside the menu, glancing out the window and watching people pass by. Angelo came by and Sherlock ordered their food without looking away from Greg.

“I do desire a relationship with you,” Sherlock said in his usual blunt tone. Greg nearly choked on his own tongue as he turned back to look at Sherlock.

“Christ, Sherlock.” He was glad that he hadn’t been drinking water or, even worse, eating food, when Sherlock had made such a declaration. “Right. Look. I’m single right now, yeah?” Greg couldn’t maintain eye contact. “I’d like to stay that way for a while.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “You’re attracted to me.” He seemed a bit put out. “Why do you not desire a relationship with me?”

Greg raised his eyebrows, glancing at Sherlock. “It takes a lot more than desire to make a relationship, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hmphed but didn’t say anything further, instead picking up the menu and staring fastidiously at it. “It seems to work on the telly,” he muttered petulantly.

Greg smiled to himself. Maybe someday, eventually, he could say yes. Sherlock had spoken the truth - part of Greg very much did desire a relationship with him. But the rest of Greg wasn’t ready, and he couldn’t commit to something new when something old was still holding him back. It wasn’t fair to Sherlock.

The rest of the dinner went far better than Greg would have anticipated. Sherlock wasn’t snarky or dismissive, and he demonstrated vast knowledge of Greg’s favourite football and rugby teams, including their standings for the recent seasons. Then their talk had turned to work, then to free time, and Greg wasn’t surprised when Sherlock talked avidly about a few classical books he had read lately.

When the meal was over and it was time to leave, Greg was almost sad. It had been nice, the opportunity to relax and unwind with someone whom he did consider a close friend. It was even obvious that Sherlock had enjoyed himself - he had a smile on his face that Greg had not seen before.

“I suppose that this is farewell for now,” Sherlock mused as they stood outside of the restaurant. “Or do I walk you home?”

Greg grinned. “I’m not a damsel, thanks. I can make my own way home.”

Sherlock chuckled. He stepped forward, just into Greg’s space, and hesitated. Greg swallowed thickly, instinctively taking a half-step back and trying not to make it noticeable. He liked Sherlock, he did, he just - wouldn’t - couldn’t. “Later,” Greg said quietly, an apology and a promise in the same word. Eventually, his mind added. Someday.

“Later,” Sherlock echoed. He nodded, turned on his heel, and strode off into the darkness, leaving Greg behind.

Greg stood in front of the restaurant for a few minutes, feeling oddly empty. Part of him wanted to call Sherlock back. Tell him yes, that he wanted him. But the rest of him knew it wasn’t that simple. He sighed, moving to flag down a cabbie who could take him home. At least he had work the next day and he wouldn’t have to think about their ‘date’, or what would happen next.

-

It was midafternoon the next day when Greg got the call. Homicide, not far away. Suspect was already in custody, but the scene needed processing and the suspect a proper interrogation. He arrived with Sally in tow less than fifteen minutes later. “Do we have details?” Greg asked her as they headed towards the home.

“Fifteen year old male, beaten to death.” Her voice was terse and her face was strained. “Suspect is his father.”

Greg stopped to take the file she offered him, looking at the details but not really seeing. He hated abuse cases, he really did. Especially when they ended in homicide. “Right. Anything else about the case?”

“Mum isn’t in the picture. She apparently left two years ago, leaving the fifteen year old, Seth, living with his biological father.” Sally flipped a few more pages. “Neighbors have complained about domestic disturbances before. Seth has three visits to a hospital in the past two years, twice for broken bones.”

“Christ,” Greg swore. He felt sick to his stomach. It could have been him, on the floor, dead and gone. Never to grow up, be old, fall in love. A future wasted, because someone should not have been a parent. “Where’s the father?”

“Gregson’s got him, and is taking him back to the Yard for processing. He can handle the interrogation if you want to handle the scene paperwork.” Sally chuckled. “He says you’re much better at the admin work than he is.”

Later Greg would have to remember to get Gregson back for the jibe. Better at admin work, Greg’s arse. “Thanks. I’ll take a look at the scene and then we can get back to the Yard.” Wasted trip, then. Secretly Greg was thankful for his efficient co-workers, ensuring that he wouldn’t have to deal with the interrogation. Greg wasn’t certain that he could handle it.

It was just as brutal as he had feared. Blood was everywhere, and there were scene technicians documenting the various spatter patterns in order to determine the origin and order of events. “Gory,” Sally said, her voice sad. “I hate child victims.”

“Me too,” Greg said, watching Seth’s body be loaded to go back to the morgue for a proper autopsy. They stayed for a while, overseeing collection of evidence and documentation of the chain of evidence. It was a few hours before they were done - far too long, in Greg’s opinion.

“Back to the Yard, sir?” Sally asked politely.

“Yeah.” Greg nodded. “Let’s go.” He would get that bloody paperwork done, then go home and have a beer. Or two, or three, or four. He had earned that much.

-

Greg was two beers in when he heard a knock on his door. He glared at it, aware that he had already changed out of his work clothes and into pyjamas so he could veg and watch the telly. Grumbling, he stood and walked to the door but didn’t open it. “Hello?”

“John kicked me out of 221B for the night,” Sherlock said from the other side. “I know you have a sofa.”

“I do have a sofa,” Greg said, unlocking the door with a sigh. Out of habit he checked his attire. He was already dressed appropriately - long-sleeve shirt, long pyjama bottoms. There was no danger of Sherlock seeing something that he didn’t need to see. “You’re free to kip on it if you want.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock inclined his head slightly. Greg gave him a quizzical look.

“Thank you?” he inquired.

“Yes.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Is it that surprising?”

“Yes.” Greg smiled faintly. “Want a beer? I know it’s not what you normally drink - John says you like wine - but.”

Sherlock plucked one out of Greg’s hand.

“What do you say?” Greg chided, teasing.

“Please and thank you,” Sherlock said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. Greg grinned.

Settling on opposite sides of the sofa, they watched TV in silence, sipping beer every so often. Greg wasn’t drunk, just pleasantly buzzed, but he was tired and had been drinking on an empty stomach. “Right.” He stood, swaying slightly and gripping the back of the sofa for traction. “The blanket is on the footstool. Feel free to use it or not use it, but I’ll warn you, it gets cold at night.”

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “I am certain I shall be fine.”

Greg cast Sherlock’s suit a doubtful look. Maybe he had pyjamas stashed underneath it. He had to bite back a chuckle at the mental image. “Also - my room’s off limits at night.” Greg struggled to maintain steady, firm eye contact. He meant it. “Off limits means no going in at all.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement, but his expression was curious. “Of course.”

Greg nodded slightly. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Greg,” Sherlock replied, turning his gaze back to the TV.

It wasn’t the first time Greg wished that he had a lock on his bedroom door. Instead, he would have to hope that Sherlock honoured their agreement. He crawled under his duvet, curling up on his side, facing the door. For all that it was Sherlock, Greg wasn’t sure if he would be able to sleep with someone else in the flat. It left him on guard, wary - he knew at any moment Sherlock could renege on their unofficial agreement and barge into the bedroom like he owned it.

It had been over a year since Greg had last slept with someone in the flat, two years since he had slept with someone in the same bed. It left him feeling jittery, unnerved, unused to any sort of intimacy with someone else. He trusted Sherlock, he did, but there was different levels of trust. Still, it took two hours of tossing and turning before Greg finally fell asleep. 

It was the hand on his shoulder that woke him up, three hours later. The voice telling him shh, it would be okay. Who was it? Was it - him? A choked sob escaped his throat as he threw himself upright and out of his nightmare. His heart was pounding fast, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps - a nightmare. A night terror. He looked at Sherlock, eyes wide, panting as he tried to regain control of his nervous system. Sherlock was standing next to him, eyes concerned. “Get out,” Greg told him between pants. He didn’t know why Sherlock was there, all he knew was that he wanted him away. This was something that Greg could deal with on his own. He didn’t want anyone else around, coddling him.

“You were screaming in your sleep,” Sherlock said coolly, stung.

“I don’t,” Greg breathed, “care. Get out.” He realized that his shirt had rucked up, damp with sweat, and visible were four of the thin, criss-crossing scars that were on his stomach. “Get out,” he pleaded, hating what he sounded like. Pathetic, needy - a victim. Not someone who had came out the other side, victorious. Still. All he wanted was for Sherlock to get out so he could calm down.

Wordlessly Sherlock stood, casting one last glance at Greg, before he strode out of Greg’s bedroom, gently closing the door behind him. Greg pushed Sherlock out of his mind, refusing to think about the fact that the younger man would be sitting on the couch, sulking at being scolded. He couldn’t focus on that. Instead he pinched his nose, sitting straight up and focusing on his breathing. In, hold for two seconds, out. Rinse and repeat. He could do that.

Eventually his shaking slowed, and he could move without his muscles spasming without permission. His chest no longer felt tight, his breathing no longer restricted. He didn’t see pictures of his father every time he closed his eyes. With a sigh Greg got out of bed. His pyjamas were now soaked in sweat, and so were his sheets. He would have to change everything tomorrow. Tonight he just didn’t have the energy.

He took the time to change pyjamas and shove the bedsheets around so that he found a relatively dry spot. Crawling back into bed, Greg struggled to close his eyes. Every time he did, his heart rate accelerated, afraid of someone coming through the door. He jolted upright, hearing a click echo in the darkness. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was the TV turning off - Sherlock. It was just Sherlock. He was okay. He was safe. Still, it was an hour before Greg was able to fall asleep. How was he going to face Sherlock in the morning?

-

It did not turn out to be a problem, for when Greg woke up, Sherlock was gone. Greg stood in his living room, frowning. It was clean. The beers weren’t on the floor or the table, the dishes had been cleaned and - put away. Clearly, Sherlock had a twin who was actually a responsible human being. That or Sherlock had been replaced by an alien. Greg wasn’t sure which theory creeped him out more.

He didn’t have to work until later in the afternoon, so he decided to make breakfast. It was slow going, as it always was after a bad night. Every little noise, every little sound, made him flinch, sent shivers crawling down his spine. He kept glancing over his shoulder, ensuring that he was alone, that there was no one else with him. It no longer bothered him, that he did that. Instead, it was just part of the routine. A way of coping with the adrenaline that left him aware of everything around him.

Eventually Greg sat at his table, in the corner, able to see his entire apartment from where he sat. It wasn’t necessary, but it made him feel better. As he ate he read articles on his phone, checked his emails for updates - caught up on all that had happened since he had left work the day before. A glance at the clock told him he didn’t have to go into work for four hours. A glance at his inbox told him it was probably a good idea to go in early.

Besides, the alternative was staying at home. Or shopping. He was running low on food. Greg considered his options as he cleaned the dishes. Shopping involved people, particularly strangers, and Greg didn’t think he was quite up to navigating even the basic social politeness necessary to purchase groceries. Instead, he showered and got dressed, checking for any remnant of Sherlock’s presence from the night before. Had he simply imagined it?

Greg chose to walk the long way to work, hoping that the extra twenty minutes would settle him. He felt uneasy, like extraneous energy was sizzling under his skin. Every little thing provoked an overreaction, to the point he kept his head down and had put headphones in his ears. Classical music didn’t block out all the noise, but it cut down on what would get at him and provoke a response.

He turned on Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Waltz and continued walking, able to lift his head and actually look where he was going. The music settled him, helped him calm down. It was an odd coping method, but one that had worked well when Greg was a young adult. It was often his first line of defense after a bad night.

His mood had lifted considerably by the time he made it to work. He smiled at Sally and Dimmock, nodded at Gregson, before he disappeared into his office. Files were awaiting him on his desk, and he smiled ruefully at them. Paperwork. “Sir?” Sally poked her head in his office, waiting for him to turn around.

“Yes?” Greg asked, settling into his chair and turning to look at her.

“I have the paperwork from yesterday’s case. You just need to sign off on it.” Sally strode further into his office, handing him a small pile of files. “I reviewed it and it’s all set.”

“Thanks,” Greg said warmly, taking the files from her.

“Gregson did the interrogation, and the father is being charged with Seth’s murder.” Sally’s smile dropped, just for a moment. Greg couldn’t blame her. “Thought you’d like to know.”

Greg nodded, his gaze shifting from Sally’s face to a file cabinet on the far side of his office. “Thanks. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Sally stood back, but didn’t leave. Greg glanced at her. “Are you okay?” she asked, dropping all pretense of formality.

Greg ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. “Didn’t sleep well, is all.”

Sally paused, then nodded. “I’ll be at my desk if - if you need someone to talk to.” She straightened her top slightly, unable to make eye contact, and then turned around and strode out the door, closing it behind her. Greg stared at the door for a few moments, touched by her offer. It was rare that Sally extended a hand like that.

He didn’t have to think about Sherlock or Sally or talking or feeling for the rest of the day, as swamped as he was with paperwork. By the time most of the others had gone home he was three quarters of the way through the pile with no new homicides in sight. He was on call that night, charged with being the first one on the scene of any new homicides. Until then, paperwork it was. Tomorrow he could begin pursuing leads that he developed overnight.

It was nearing midnight when his mobile buzzed. He glanced at it, expecting it to be a request for his presence. Instead, it was Sherlock. ‘Takeout? SH’

Greg groaned. No. He couldn’t deal with Sherlock. Not today. ‘Busy with work. Tomorrow? GL’ 

His office door opened and Sherlock walked in, takeout in both hands. The smell made Greg’s stomach rumble. He hadn’t eaten in eight hours. Maybe it wasn’t that horrible, Sherlock showing up with food. “This isn’t tomorrow,” he informed Sherlock.

“I didn’t get your text.” Sherlock smiled his fake smile.

Greg sighed, then waved a hand, indicating that Sherlock could sit down. “I could use a break from paperwork, I guess.”

“I got your favourite,” Sherlock said without preamble, careful to situate the boxes between the files on Greg’s desk.

“And from my favourite place, too,” Greg said. Part of him was delighted that Sherlock had taken the initiative to find that out. The rest of him was on-edge, wondering what else Sherlock had learned.

“I went through your takeaway menus when I was at your flat.” Sherlock settled in the chair next to Greg’s desk, watching him as Sherlock dug into the smaller box of Chinese. Greg picked up the takeout box nearest him, able to smell the lemon chicken without opening the box. His insides relaxed a little bit at Sherlock’s admission. That certainly sounded like something Sherlock would do. It may or may not have been the truth, but for now, he was going to trust him.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Greg deftly managing the chopsticks since Sherlock had apparently not thought to ask for regular utensils. “I thought I was going to pay, next time,” Greg said, cautious with his words.

Sherlock stilled for a moment, and then resumed eating his food. “You did pay.”

Greg set down the takeout. “Did you take my card?”

“It is already back in your wallet,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Sherlock.” Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. There went his good mood.

“You haven’t eaten since you got to work - which was four hours early. I wasn’t going to let you not eat, despite the fact none of your imbecilic staff seemed to have noticed.” Sherlock’s acerbic tone caught Greg’s attention. He didn’t seem angry at Greg’s reaction, he seemed - angry at Greg’s staff. “As you insisted on being the next to pay, I did not think that you would mind that I simply facilitated the process.”

“You were watching?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock shrugged. “I have sources everywhere, Gavin.”

“Greg,” he corrected automatically. The corners of Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a smile. Greg rolled his eyes, picking up his chicken and eating quietly. He really had been hungry.

Sherlock seemed hesitant to speak. Greg didn’t mind, glancing occasionally at the consulting detective. It was rare that Sherlock was lost for words, but twice now Greg had caught him opening his mouth without sticking food in it. Instead of saying anything, Sherlock had simply looked away and closed his mouth.

“That was not your first nightmare,” Sherlock said cautiously, not making eye contact as he continued to eat his chicken.

Greg glanced at Sherlock and then focused on what was left of his chicken. “No, it wasn’t.”

“You don’t - are you -” Sherlock struggled for words, as uncertain as Greg had ever seen him.

“I can’t guarantee I’ll answer every question you have, but go ahead.” Greg waved the chopsticks, encouraging. He put aside the finished carton and dug into some fried rice.

“How long have you had nightmares?” Sherlock asked, setting aside the food.

“Since I was eight,” Greg answered promptly.

“Have they always been - like that?” Sherlock glanced at him, his eyes curious.

Greg made a so-so motion with his hand. “Sometimes they’re worse, sometimes they’re better. Some nights I don’t have any at all.” He shrugged. “Varies over time.”

Sherlock hummed, falling quiet. Greg focused studiously on the rice, moving the chopstick from the carton to his mouth, back and forth. He didn’t want to think about what Sherlock had seen last night, or what he would remember, or what he could ask - the last thing he wanted Sherlock asking about was the scars.

“Greg?” Sherlock sounded tentative - well, as tentative as Sherlock ever got, which was borderline caustic. Greg turned to look at him, startled. “Your breathing has accelerated.” Sherlock sounded more level, his voice nearly neutral. “As has your pulse. Early symptomatology consistent with a panic attack.”

“Yes.” Greg didn’t see the point in denying it. Instead, he sat aside the mostly-empty fried rice, shuffling around paperwork as he fought to control his breathing.

Sherlock grabbed the takeout containers, closing them and tossing them into the bags, along with the utensils. “Thursday, six pm. I’ll come by your place, since it’s my turn to pay.” He nodded at Greg, stood, and left.

Greg sat in his office, staring blankly at the door, until a call from Sally broke him out of his stupor. There was a crime scene waiting for his presence. Distracted, Greg put the evening’s events behind him as he went out to do his job.

-

When Thursday at six came around, Greg was sitting on his sofa, staring suspiciously at his front door. He hadn’t forgotten what Sherlock had said, but most of him did not expect the consulting detective to show up. Regardless, Greg had changed into jeans and a button up. Not slacks this time, for most of them were in the wash after being in court four days in the past week.

There was a soft knock on the door and Greg’s heart skipped a beat. It was three minutes to six. He checked himself in the mirror, rolled his eyes, and went to open the door. Sherlock stood on the other side, tapping on the keys of his mobile. “Hello,” he said, seemingly paying Greg no attention.

“You’re early,” Greg said stupidly. Sherlock was never early, unless one counted the times that he wasn’t invited and showed up of his own accord.

Sherlock sighed. “Yes.” He finished whatever he was doing on his phone and slipped it into the pocket of his Belstaff. “Shall we?”

Greg nodded, checking that he had his wallet and mobile in his pockets, before closing and locking the door behind him. “Where are we going?”

Sherlock led the way, Greg a half-step behind him. “John recommended a pub.”

Greg was rather glad that he had worn jeans. Slacks would have been too formal. He glanced at Sherlock, wondering if he was dressed in one of his infamous suits. It would certainly stand out. “You do realize that most pub food is eaten with the hands?” Greg asked conversationally.

Sherlock glanced at Greg, the corner of his lips curving up into a half-smile, half-smirk. “I do have hands.”

Greg glanced at Sherlock’s hands and winced. That was another conversation that would be important before - before their relationship, if that’s what it was, went anywhere. They walked to the pub in comfortable silence, Greg hyper-aware of the sounds around him and Sherlock seemingly lost in his own world.

When they arrived at the pub, Greg was startled to see that it was one that he and John had frequented on a few occasions. “Did John tell you that we have been here?” he asked Sherlock.

“He mentioned that you have frequented this pub in the past, yes,” Sherlock replied absently, glancing around for a booth as he slid off his Belstaff. Underneath was a suit, but it was one even Greg recognized as being more casually cut, while still maintaining Sherlock’s natural elegance. Sherlock spotted a booth available in the corner and quickly led them there, ensuring that Greg could take the side nearest the wall. Greg’s cheeks burned with shame when he realized that Sherlock had secured him a spot from which he could see the entire pub with no one behind him.

“I don’t need to be coddled,” he said, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock looked at him, his face impassive as stone. “I am not coddling you,” he said coolly. “You experience hypervigilance, and feel safest when you are able to see everything with no one behind you. As I do intend this to be a satisfactory date, I felt it was best to place you in a position in which you would feel comfortable.”

Greg rubbed his forehead. Stupid. “Sorry.” Sherlock was right, and Greg was an idiot. There was no way that Sherlock would have missed his hypervigilance, no matter how much Greg had hoped that he would. It only made sense for Sherlock to take it into account.

“I’ll get us drinks,” Sherlock said smoothly, sliding out of the booth and heading towards the bar.

Greg held his head in his hands once Sherlock had gone. Smooth, he told himself acerbically. Sherlock had just been trying to be helpful, and Greg had snapped at him. He ran through his hair, sighing at himself, and then leaned back as Sherlock returned. “John tell you my order, too?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “Yes. He said that you ordered the same thing every time.”

“Wait.” Greg paused, hands on the table. “You haven’t been asking him for advice, have you?”

“I have not revealed to him why I am asking,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “I told him it was for a case.”

“Oh.” Greg blinked.

“I do not make it a prerogative of mine to reveal to him what you do in your free time, even when that time is spent with me,” Sherlock said absently, nodding at the bar staff once their drinks were delivered.

“We could have got them from the bar,” Greg informed Sherlock.

“We could have,” Sherlock agreed, lifting the glass of scotch and taking a sip.

Greg sipped his drink, pleased at the fiery nature of the liquor. “This is good.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock said, dismissive. Greg bit back a smile. Food was next, and Sherlock surprised Greg by ordering the nachos. Meticulously he removed his jacket, folding it and setting it aside. Next he rolled his shirt up to the elbows, ensuring that it wouldn’t get food on it.

Food was delivered and small talk was had, but most of the time, they sat quietly. At most dates, that would have been a bad thing, in Greg’s experience. Instead, it was comfortable, relaxing - almost its own sort of intimacy. Greg didn’t worry around Sherlock. He wasn’t wary. Instead he could relax, could trust the person across from him. He could follow him wherever he led. Mostly. There was that one time with the chemicals that Greg had refused to be part of.

“I do consider this a date,” Sherlock said casually, carefully sorting through the nachos for the chips with the largest amount of cheese. He didn’t seem partial to olives, as Greg saw a growing pile of them on Sherlock’s side of the plate.

“Look.” Greg set aside the nacho he had picked up. If Sherlock was going to bring it up again, Greg was going to lay down his rules. He doubted they would be compatible with Sherlock’s, and going in without the details hammered out could lead to a very awkward working relationship. Regardless, he knew Sherlock wasn’t going to give up without at least testing every avenue. That was just Sherlock’s nature. “There’s - I have some rules, when it comes to relationships.”

Sherlock set down his food and looked at Greg, his eyes piercing. “Yes?”

Greg swallowed. It wasn’t how he had imagined having this conversation. He kept his voice low to avoid being overheard. “No sex. That covers all forms of sex acts,” he added hastily before Sherlock opened his mouth. “Two - we communicate. No going forward until we’re both comfortable with it. That applies to anything - physical touch, showing up at work, anything.” Sherlock inclined his head, listening intently. “Third - it’s not going to be easy.” Greg took a deep breath. “I have PTSD. It’s milder now, but it still - it’s chronic, my psychologist says. It’ll never go completely away.”

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly. Greg’s body went cold. Sherlock had looked. Sherlock knew. “I don’t know why,” Sherlock added hastily. “But I put together your symptoms along with the nightmare.”

“You’re lying,” Greg said dispassionately. He had to be.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I am not. You are only hurting yourself if you do not believe me.”

“It would be something that you would do.” Greg raised his eyebrows.

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t even bother hiding it. “However.” He glanced away, then back at Greg. “From what I have learned through my brother and John’s mistakes, relationships often begin on the wrong foot when one party has an unfair advantage. Therefore, I chose not to read the file that had been collated, concerning you.”

“Oh.” Greg looked at Sherlock, his expression softening. “I - I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looked back at him, his face impassive but for a warmth that warmed Greg’s insides as much as it scared him. “I am not a fool,” he said simply. “If this is to work, I believe a great deal of communication will be involved.”

“Can you do that?” Greg picked up a nacho and ate it, watching Sherlock intently.

“I can learn.” Sherlock didn’t break eye contact, and for a few, long seconds, they sat there, staring at each other.

Breaking eye contact, Greg stuffed another nacho in his mouth. “This doesn’t mean that you’re coming home with me.”

Sherlock smirked. “John will be so disappointed that he owes me twenty quid.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “And that will have to stop. Our - our life, whatever it is, is not something to bet about.”

“I wasn’t betting about whether or not you’d invite me over.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Simply whether or not you would consider it a date.”

“That’s still betting,” Greg informed him.

“I shall inform John that the bet is off. After I get twenty quid.”

Greg chuckled. “Alright.” Sherlock dug back into the nachos, his empty glass of scotch in front of him. “Do you want another drink?” Greg asked.

“No.” Carefully Sherlock navigated the last of the nachos. Greg let him have them, smiling slightly as Sherlock licked his fingers. “You’re staring,” Sherlock remarked, seemingly amused.

“It’s distracting,” Greg said dryly. For a moment they sat in silence, not looking at each other, both lost in their own world.

“We could enjoy a movie,” Sherlock said cautiously.

Greg’s breath hitched and his stomach tied itself in knots. “Next time?” he said, fighting to keep his voice level.

Sherlock relaxed slightly. “Next time.”

Greg smiled, then slid out of the booth, standing and stretching slightly sore muscles. It had been a long day at work and he was tired of sitting. Sherlock stood next to him, waiting for Greg to lead the way out of the pub. Finally they stood outside, ignoring the light drizzle that came down around them. “This is good night, then,” Greg said, trying to sound casual.

This time, when Sherlock stepped closer, Greg didn’t flinch and step back. His breath caught, his heart pounded. He stood without moving, watching Sherlock, his hands at his sides. Greg trusted Sherlock, as much as one could trust Sherlock Holmes. Besides, he had his own training - if needed, he could certainly get Sherlock away from him.

Instead, Sherlock gently cupped Greg’s face in his long, slender hands, and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, a short one, and then Sherlock pulled back, dropping his hands from Greg’s face and assessing his wellbeing. His intense eyes searched Greg’s, checking for signs or symptoms of an impending panic attack. Greg smiled slightly.

He stepped forward until he was the one entering Sherlock’s space, then carefully kissed him again. It was just as short of a kiss, but this time he was the one in control. It felt safer that way. Still, he felt giddy, like he was high. Euphoria sung through his veins.

“Good night,” Greg said softly. He didn’t want to let go, he didn’t want to end the night. Sherlock had not said no, and that was far more than Greg had been expecting.

Sherlock nodded, returning Greg’s smile with a cautious one of his own. “Good night.”

This time it was Greg who turned around and strode off into the darkness, counting on the walk home to calm him down and wipe the smile off of his face. Certainly his coworkers would notice if he came into work the next day with a wide smile on his face. Besides, Greg reminded himself, it could still not work out. It wasn’t easy, working within the realms of Greg’s triggers. Sherlock was smart, that was for sure, but sometimes the difficulties proved insurmountable.

Greg just had to hope that this wasn’t one of those times.

-

Greg fussed with his sofa, ensuring that the pillows were properly arranged. Sherlock was bringing takeout, all Greg was responsible for was a movie and a place to settle down to watch a movie. That would be the sofa. Still, Greg had spent the better part of his day off scrubbing his flat until it shone. That included his bedroom, although he doubted they would get that far. He shoved the thought out of his mind as he scrubbed the counter one last time. Sherlock was a smart man, he would respect Greg’s boundaries and maybe even set a few of his own.

There was a knock on the door and Greg stood, surveying his flat. It was clean enough for their - date. His stomach flipped as he thought the word. Date. He still wasn’t entirely certain what he thought about dating Sherlock. Sherlock was - well, Sherlock. Dating involved other things, like - love. Greg hated the word love, but he could admit that he was rather fond of Sherlock. Romantically fond, even.

He opened the door, smiling at the sight of Sherlock in his Belstaff. He was carrying two bags of food, their dinner for the evening. “You’ll have leftovers,” Sherlock said as he strode inside, settling the bags on the table. He was obviously pleased with himself.

“Making sure I have enough to eat for the rest of the week?” Greg raised his eyebrows. Even with Sherlock eating as much as Greg would, there was more than twice what was necessary.

“Yes,” Sherlock said without preamble, slipping off his Belstaff and hanging it up. He was dressed impeccably, in a neatly cut suit with a dark purple shirt. “You do not ensure that you have sufficient food available when you work long hours.”

Greg conceded the point as he went into his kitchen, pulling down plates and bowls. Sherlock grabbed utensils, meeting Greg at the table where they divided up food for both of them. "You're not eating much?" Greg asked, looking at the much smaller portion on Sherlock's plate.

Sherlock made a disgusted face. "I ate breakfast."

"There's more than one meal in a day, Sherlock," Greg informed him.

"Not for me there isn't." Sherlock picked up chopsticks, ignoring Greg's forks, and settled on one side of the sofa. He left plenty of room for Greg, a fact which Greg was thankful for.

Greg picked up his food, picking up the DVD and placing it in the player before grabbing the remote and settling on the sofa. "I won't apologize for picking a mainstream movie." Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. Instead he continued eating, navigating chopsticks with a grace that Greg envied. "If you really don't like it, we can change movies," he promised.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, turning to look at Greg once the menu came up. "Harry Potter?"

"Got a problem with it?" Greg asked mildly. He figured they would start with the first one, and watch all eight movies eventually. "Have you read the books?"

Sherlock sighed and then shook his head. "I am not entirely opposed to the movie."

"Good." Greg tucked his feet up on the sofa, determinedly not paying attention to how close that put him to Sherlock. He could worry about that later.

"Greg." Sherlock sounded cautious, something that worried the DI. He turned to look at him, questioning. "In terms of - non-sexual physical comfort, what is acceptable?"

Greg blinked. "I don't - what?"

Sherlock scowled, finishing his dinner and placing the plate on the coffee table in front of him. "It is a ridiculous colloquialism and I refuse to say it."

It took Greg a few seconds, but then it dawned on him. "Are you asking if we can cuddle on the sofa?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the mention of the word. "I refuse to use such ridiculous terminology, but essentially, yes."

The last time Greg had cuddled with someone, it had been his ex wife, three years before their divorce. Sherlock was vastly different. "Let me finish eating?" he asked. Sherlock nodded, turning his attention back to the screen as the beginning played.

Greg closed his eyes, breathing in and out, and then resumed eating his food. He wasn't panicking, not yet, but sometimes it helped to breathe in and out, center his emotions and ensure that he wouldn't panic easily. Eventually he set down his fork, finished. Standing, he took his and Sherlock's plates to the sink, and then packed the leftovers into the fridge, mouthing along with the actors as he listened to the movie. He had a particular fondness for Harry Potter and had watched all of the movies several times. Moving back into the living room, he stood for a few moments longer, watching the telly without sitting down.

"If you are not comfortable with it, then we do not have to initiate any sort of physical contact," Sherlock said quietly.

"What do you want?" Greg asked after a moment.

"I am not adverse to physical contact. However, I do not wish to cause you duress of any sort." Sherlock kept his eyes on Greg, watching him intently.

"Right." Greg sat down on the sofa, closer to Sherlock's side than he had been previously. He felt ridiculous. It had never felt so deliberate before, not with his ex-wife. That had been automatic, two bodies moving in sync with each other. But Greg had been different then, had been with her far longer. Maybe it had been awkward in the beginning. Greg couldn't remember. He glanced at Sherlock to see him apparently engrossed in the movie, paying no attention to Greg's awkwardness. Greg was thankful. It took some of the pressure off what he was doing, and allowed him to relax.

Almost absently Sherlock draped an arm across the back of the sofa, shifting so that there was room for Greg if he wanted to get closer. Greg glanced at the TV - Harry was being sorted - and then turned slightly, letting Sherlock drop his arm across Greg's shoulders. "Are you okay?" Sherlock asked quietly, not distracting Greg from the movie.

"Yeah, thanks," Greg replied softly. Sherlock was being far more tender than Greg could have anticipated, and part of him was cautiously optimistic. Maybe their relationship would work out after all.

It took some time, but slowly Greg relaxed, leaning into Sherlock and laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He shifted so that more of him was being supported by Sherlock. Sherlock moved slightly underneath him, ensuring that Greg could lay more fully against Sherlock’s chest without causing either of them undue discomfort. Greg glanced at him, gratified to see Sherlock look back, raising his eyebrows, questioning. Greg smiled and went back to watching the movie.

Sherlock slid a hand into Greg’s hair, looking at him for permission. Greg nodded slightly, not jarring Sherlock’s hand from where it was. Carefully Sherlock slid a hand through Greg’s short hair, scraping his fingers across Greg’s scalp in a way that felt oddly pleasant. It also made Greg drowsy.

By the time Harry woke up in the hospital, Greg had his eyes closed and was listening along. He was comfortable, although not comfortable enough to fall into true sleep. Eventually the credits played and Sherlock shifted, murmuring an apology as he stretched his legs. Greg straightened, propping himself up and stretching sore muscles. “‘m sorry,” he said, yawning.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, rolling his neck and stretching out muscle cramps. “It is nothing to be sorry for.”

Greg sat on the sofa for a few moments, reaching for the remote and turning off the telly. Did he ask Sherlock to leave? Did he want him to leave? What would happen if he stayed?

“I would like to clarify one thing,” Sherlock said suddenly, drawing Greg’s attention. “I have no interest in sex of any sort.”

Greg tilted his head, eyeing Sherlock curiously. “You don’t?”

“Correct.” Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “I do not have a sex drive and therefore, your restrictions upon our sex life would be in no way harmful to our relationship.”

Greg couldn’t deny that it was a weight off of his back, hearing that. Part of him wanted to distrust Sherlock, assume that he was lying. However, Greg had spent years in therapy learning how to trust again. When in doubt, he tried to trust. “I can’t - guarantee that this will work.” He ran a hand through his hair. His heart was pounding fast. “You could stay the night,” Greg offered, trying not to regret the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Part of him wanted to tell Sherlock the truth, but the rest of him wanted to run away as fast as he could. He was nervous, he always would be nervous, but he knew he would feel most comfortable with their relationship if Sherlock knew the whole truth about what had happened. It was the past, yes, but it would be relevant to their future if they were to have one.

“What would that consist of?” Sherlock glanced at Greg, then away, seemingly entranced by a picture of Greg as a teenager on the wall opposite them.

“I -” Greg swallowed. “I can handle someone in bed with me, as long as I’m closest to the door. Clothes -” he stopped. Sherlock didn’t have any clothes here. “Clothes would have to stay on, for now.”

“That is negotiable at some point in the future?” Sherlock guessed, gaze sweeping Greg up and down.

Greg nodded. “Small steps, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, leaning down and pulling a bag out from underneath Greg’s sofa. Greg frowned at him. “I stored this here last time I was here,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Overnight bag.”

“Does John know you’re gone?” Greg glanced at his mobile.

“Yes.” Sherlock hummed as he glanced through the bag. “I accept your conditions.”

“So you’re staying the night?” Greg clarified.

“Yes, as long as you are amenable to our discussed arrangement.”

Greg glanced at his bedroom, ignoring the dread that pooled in his stomach. “I think so.”

“Are there other things that you wish to attend to before retiring for the night?” Sherlock asked, pulling the bag onto his lap.

Greg shook his head. “I’ll - change in the bedroom.” Nervously he tugged at his sleeves, then stood.

Sherlock stood alongside him, looking at Greg intently. “You do not have to say anything you are not comfortable sharing,” he said, his voice soft. “I do not wish you to feel pressured in any way.”

Greg smiled faintly. “Thanks,” he said, his voice quiet. “But you have a right to know, if we’re - going to do this properly.” He headed for the bedroom, closing the door before stripping down to his pants and pulling on pyjamas. He wanted to talk to Sherlock, wanted to tell him, show him, but he didn’t want to do so without some sort of preparation. His hands lingered on the scars on his abdomen, on the burn marks that littered his arms and thighs. All memories of his childhood, from years ago, that haunted him even now.

He opened the door, startling slightly when he saw Sherlock standing less than a metre away. Sherlock was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting pyjama pants and a t-shirt, a dressing gown haphazardly slung to the side. His suit was neatly folded and on the back of Greg’s sofa. The Belstaff was hanging on the coat rack. “My dry cleaner is good at removing wrinkles,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side.

“You could have just asked to put it in the wardrobe,” Greg said, allowing a faint smile to show on his face. “Will you - come here for a second?” He hesitated. “I want to tell you something.”

Sherlock came inside Greg’s bedroom, sitting on the bed when Greg pointed to it. “Yes?”

Taking a deep breath, Greg rolled up the sleeve of his right arm. “Cigarette burns. I’ve got them on both arms and my thighs, too.” He showed them to Sherlock, close enough that the consulting detective could touch if he wished. Greg hoped that he wouldn’t. “He liked to whip me, or cut me with a razor blade.” Greg lifted his t-shirt, showing the thin lash lines on his front and back, juxtaposed with the white scar tissue from the razor. “There are other - assorted ones. I’m not sure where all of them are from.” He shrugged evasively, covering himself back up and standing, not looking at Sherlock.

“How old were you?” Sherlock asked mildly.

“Started when I was three, I think,” Greg answered. He was cautious, wary, on edge. The situation could go either way, but he was invested, now. Sherlock deserved the truth. “I was put in foster care when I was twelve.”

“Nine years?” Sherlock glanced at Greg for clarification.

“Yes.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “I was adopted by Mary Lestrade, and I took her name. I was fourteen.”

“How did you become a DI with all of that behind you?” Sherlock seemed genuinely interested.

“Intensive therapy. Meds.” Greg shrugged. “Traded away cases I couldn’t handle. I still go to therapy sometimes. Went a lot more after my ex left, but right now I only go for checkups, medication adjustments.”

“May I?” Sherlock asked.

Greg hesitated. What was he asking for? Trust, he reminded himself. Trust. “Yeah.”

Still sitting, Sherlock gently reached out and pulled Greg into a hug. His arms wrapped around Greg’s middle like a loose vice, his head carefully burying itself in Greg’s middle. Greg blinked down at Sherlock, startled, and then wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I cannot - adequately put into words what makes you unique,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by Greg’s shirt. “However, that is what you are. And it - angers me that someone would not realise that, even years ago.”

For some reason Greg blinked back tears. That was practically a declaration of love, from Sherlock. It wasn’t something he had expected. “Thank you.”

After a few moments, Sherlock let go, looking up at Greg with something akin to tenderness in his eyes. “Do you have a desired position in bed?”

Greg stifled a chuckle. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Spooning is fine. Just - don’t trap me, yeah?”

“Of course.” Sherlock waited for Greg to get underneath the covers before he slid in behind him. Greg focused on ensuring that the duvet was only loosely tucked into the bedframe - if he needed to get out from underneath it, he did not want to have to fight his way through a well-tucked duvet. He took a deep breath as Sherlock came up behind him, resting a hand on Greg’s hip instead of draping it over his middle. “Is this amenable?” Sherlock asked quietly, his lips near the back of Greg’s neck.

Greg nodded, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. The adrenaline was finally leaving his body. “Sorry if I hit you when I’m sleeping.”

“I shall take that into consideration,” Sherlock said, seemingly amused.

Greg smiled faintly. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s, twining their fingers together. “Good night,” he murmured, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. He could be giddy later.

Sherlock smiled against the back of Greg’s neck. “Good night,” he murmured.

Together, they slept.


End file.
